His Hem

I want to touch His hem,
press through the crowd of paparazzi 
and stars and planets
to crawl over dust and space and the trash that lines the streets
the galaxies swirling

I want to touch His hem
like that woman with blood-stained garments
He, her final hope 
as she pressed through the crowds of paparazzi
and stars and planets
and crawled through dust and space
she herself the culture’s trash 
the galaxies of her world swirling in one last pitch for pause.
​
I want to touch His hem
I want Him to turn, visible through it all, 
and ask ‘who touched Me’ 
knowing all along it was me
It was me 
I touched His hem 
and the bleeding stopped.

Invisible Disability

I play darts in the graveyard at night.
The tomb-less Dead throw
jabs through their friends and neighbors;
as they hover above the dew-draped ground
and dispel into tree-branches without a sound.
No harm done 
except to one;
a mortal not a specter.

Sometimes they target me,
project a red circle on the front of me
pierce the place with saber-like 
cutlery. 
If only I would bleed.

Then night draws them back into crypts below.
Where they smirk and trash talk the unfortunates
ones like me with precarious
abilities. I stumble home with a real heart and tender limbs 
run through with 
their darts, not of death but of ruin.

I pull them out. 
Slow motion surgery,
Leaving only doubt that I am capable
to rise, trapped in full shiver, 
without shame,
proud of my name.

Direct hits burn on in misty disappearance,
haint-like they linger,
cold among the dead.
Yet burning in the sunlight until
once again,
​I play darts in the graveyard at night.

My Face Is Known
Théoden, king of Rohan, struggled to breathe after falling in the battle for Gondor. His lungs began to collapse, and the blood that had sustained him through many stories of victory and defeat now streamed into the ground of Middle Earth. Frantic arms embraced him as he searched his years for final words. Éowyn, Théoden’s niece, spoke his name and as he focused on her, he whispered through an inviting smile, “I know your face.”
Few phrases capture me with the depth of this one. We all desire for our face to be known—not just seen and described with impressions from without but with the soul-heartened gaze that has walked the journey beside us and chosen not to turn away. Last night I recalled these words and ached to hear them. Then the words came in a kind and knowing whisper.
Jesus knows my face. He holds and raises it when shame forces my eyes to the ground. He squeezes my cheek and musses my hair when we’ve laughed. And when He sits and stares into my eyes with love, having seen the fear, the anger, questions, and wavering, He moves His thumb across the damp skin under my eyes and takes the tears for His treasure. He adds them to His own.
I wonder if when He searched His vast and timeless stores of memory for final words on the cross, did He look into my eyes, as yet unformed, and whisper, “I know Your face.” Did He look into your eyes, years future, and say the same?
​ How I want to know His face in return. I want to sit with Him through dinner, the kind with cloth napkins and fine wine. I want to know what He’s thinking and finish His sentences as we smile and move to the center of the room. I want Him to lead me as we dance and flow as one to the song of lovers who’ve worked and worn and created together. “I know Your face,” comforts me today and I find myself full, my face tinged by the redness of a virgin blush. Surely, the whole world must see that my face is known.

Psalm 23

Oh no, a cliché, 
the one that they say is mild and melodious 
the way that life should be 
when Jesus transforms us 
from dirt to eternity 
from desert and rocks to a pasture of green.

So cliché’s aside for a moment or two 
and look at the words 
not what they say 
but what do they do 
when it’s out of control and on a downhill roll 
then splash in you go 
to the waters of still 
and silent 
and hush this is good.

But does He know the valley of death 
where the spirit lives in a cave in the ground 
where no nourishment gives a shit in the space 
and no word of grace 
but it crawls inside 
an oil so crude 
and an attitude
but He’s there. . .

and He walks beside 
He knows when to speak 
and for days He’ll just listen 
till the space and the cave empty to sand 
and the salt of the earth rises up
to touch my lips and it is well 
and the fortress is mighty like a shield 
and the space is the house of the Lord 
​ not the damned.

Stages of Grief

​Denial:  When there is a loss he has not yet left         
               Palpable presence, the experience of breath
               Still warm is the outline on the sheet beside me
               The image ethereal, the authentic so near.
Anger:    When there is a loss, the damned of hell laugh their flames         
                 Like acid, their spit, melting blisters on pale pink skin         
                 Charred and fragile, ashes blown in tornadic lift         
                 A hate, a leaving, a not understanding, a fist, and a nail.
Bargaining:  When there is a loss, a crap game ensues              
                       The die is thrown with a rope to the heart         
                       And the numbers make known         
                       The dice are loaded and the game is over before it begins.
Depression:  When there is a loss, a ghost is left         
                        Sometimes a moan of wisps left single         
                        Or a voice so strong as to be an inch from audible         
                        A double-edged sword, with blood on both sides.
Acceptance:  When there is a loss         
                        There is a loss…And the game goes on         
                        The incentives linger         
                        No longer tokens but stones to remember.
(Based on the five stages of grief by Kubler-Ross)